


Take Me Home

by mymindismyweapon



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 13:03:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7223380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mymindismyweapon/pseuds/mymindismyweapon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a one shot of what I wanted to happen in episode 8, "No One" in the show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me Home

**Author's Note:**

> It broke my heart to watch episodes 7 & 8, during the scenes where Arya gets totally shanked by psycho waif girl and she wanders around hoping to see someone who can help her. Honestly, I would've been happy to see anyone she/we knew come to her rescue. 
> 
> So I couldn't help myself because they will always be my OTP, and wrote a one shot of Gendry encountering Arya's whole situation in episode 8 when the waif is zooming around after her. It isn't super fluffy but I had to get it out of my head. I hope you enjoy! C:

Navigating the bustling, hectic, swearing crowds of Braavos had become easier with each passing day, the atmosphere almost identical to King’s Landing. Though, communication seemed to be a bit rougher as he didn’t speak a word of the language. Westerosi was a common enough tongue that he simply had to quirk his eyebrow, for a merchant to pick up on his inadequate speaking skills and swiftly attempt to bargain the very clothes from his back.

Certainly, the whole experience of living in an entirely new country was overwhelming, but luck was on his side. As he landed his borrowed boat on the busy dock nearly three months ago, Gendry asked a young passerby if there was a smith nearby and that happened to be all the guidance he needed. Within a few hours, he was feeding a fire that he wished was his own belly, in an effort to prove his smithing skills. A rough looking woman with vibrant red hair, asked him to fashion a weapon, really anything he wanted, from a scrap of metal she randomly pulled from a barrel. It was a misshapen thing that seemed more rust than iron, and may have been used as a hook for capturing other boats, nets, or an animal he would never want to meet. He melted and beat it like he was reshaping his own life, until a modest, neat blade came out of it. A thick, gnarled man examined his work, grunted happily, and then grunted again in a more authoritative manner, urging him towards the anvil and a pile of similarly odd looking chunks of steel and bronze.     

Gendry gave his mind and heart up to these sad pieces of metal that sang the stories of their past seafaring days as his hammer made them anew. Apparently, the people who bought his products spoke highly enough in the presence of his master to keep him working with the option of a full belly and a small room full of messily piled bolts of burlap. The man who the people called, Ni’itar, though he never really introduced himself to Gendry, was one of the only smiths in that corner of Braavos. The Braavosi smith’s wife, Bellona, seemed to be the translator and overseer of the business. Despite her loud voice and harsh conversation, he was glad to have her company as he rarely spoke to anyone else.

On occasion, Bellona would task Gendry with finding a list of supplies out in the market. He had a suspicion that she was only forcing him to do it to make him more comfortable with the city so he would eventually leave. Honestly, it didn’t offend him. He would like to one day own a forge of his own, whether it be here in Braavos, or back across the Narrow Sea in Westeros. Either way, he needed to make a home for himself.

One bright, ordinary day, Gendry set out to retrieve a new collection of tools Bellona requested as punishment for splintering the handle of a hammer Gendry had grown to think of as his own. Ni’itar showed his amusement for the shattering of a perfectly thick, strong handle in an unending bout of rough laughter. His wife was less amused. So, now Gendry was out searching for five new tools in place of only one in the case he unintentionally destroys all of their utensils.

In the midst of bargaining with a dark haired beauty who tried using compliments to sway his price, screaming and shouts of alarm broke her bartering efforts. The amount of people around him became thicker as a makeshift fighting ring appeared among the mass. Curiosity peaked many people’s attention, while others fled to safety. He wanted so badly to follow the few who retreated but a shout from the middle of the circle sparked his mind with familiarity. Shoving through a crowd intent on an opportunity at free entertainment was harder than he thought, but after being bombarded with what he assumed were foreign curses, and possible confrontations that were ended when his size became more obvious, he became only a few rows of people away from the fighting pair. And he was only a few paces from his estranged friend, Arya Stark.

Gendry stood in shock, swaying with the excited crowd of people, egging on the vicious looking woman Arya seemed to be up against. Arya’s hair was longer, her face more pronounced, and her body might have seemed taller if not for the slight hunch she positioned herself in. With an unpleasant shock of realization, he saw her trembling hand pressed against her abdomen and an alarming amount of blood flowing through her fingers to soak the dry cobblestones below her feet. Assessing the situation took too long, as the other girl grinned with mirth and savagely kicked Arya’s arm she used to block her tender wound. He winced at the shout she let out and then felt his heart clench painfully as he watched Arya’s eyes dart around her, pleading with desperation, the darkness around them emphasizing her precarious circumstances.

The merciless attack on Arya continued, the duo dancing around, dodging, defending, whimpering as hit after hit, seemed to carve away at Arya’s strength and Gendry’s self-control. His mind was frantically trying to come up with a distraction or some way to hinder the animalistic assailant, but also trying not to be impulsive about it. Each strike the unknown person laid on Arya was measured and accurate regardless of Arya’s swift actions to counter. He didn’t stand a chance.

Arya was facing him now, the other’s straight, confident back to him as he glimpsed a small dagger slip to her hand. There was no doubt everyone in the crowd missed the entrance of a new weapon, except him and Arya. Her eyes widened and then met his as if she had known the whole time he was standing there, watching her get pummeled. But, they softened; grey as clouds after a heavy rain, grey as the fur of a new born pup, grey as acceptance of what was to come. Gendry had given up on his attempts of being clever or rational. He didn’t care for watching, probably his only living friend, die in front of him while he drowned in the uncertainty of “standing a chance.”

Arya dropped her hand from her belly and took on a more composed stance, prepared for the final fight. As he pushed through the last of the crowd, Arya’s fighting partner leaned forward menacingly and whispered, “No more running, _girl._ ” Faster than Gendry could blink, she dashed toward Arya but was stopped short by his crushing grip on the hand clutching the dagger.

“Run, Arya,” he grunted, as he lifted the woman that he now realized was just a girl, and shook her until the dagger clanged and bones crunched against his palm. Out of the corner of his eye, a blur of blue vanished into the crowd. He smiled to himself then felt a little tinge of disappointment at the small yelp he gained from breaking the little bitch’s wrist. In spite of a few shattered bones, the wench twisted her body until her knee found his gut and he loosened his grip enough for her to indifferently jerk her arm back. He cringed more at the sound of the fracture grinding than of his own pain, disgusted by the lack of reaction from her.

The crowd had closed back in around them, causing the girl to weave and thrust her body into the density of people. Gendry hoped his distraction was enough for Arya to escape. Part of him was sad to see Arya run away again, but he was happy to see her, if only for a brief, unusual moment. He stood straighter and ran in the direction the two rivals headed, in case he was needed again. Braavosi parted like the sea, and he ran down the steps, keeping a close watch on the smooth flight of Arya’s pursuer, barely a black smear on the stairs ahead of him. Thankfully, Arya was nowhere in sight.

Gendry picked up his lumbering pace and focused on avoiding the awnings of street carts while keeping the determined figure in his sight. As he narrowly knocked over a stack of barrels and stumbled instead, he quickly regained his balance and recovered his target. Though the closer he became, the sooner he realized a layering of black and blue, like two books on a bookshelf, the darker nearer to him and the blue one obstructed from his view. He ran faster, bruising his heels as they struck the back of each step, hoping against all hope, he wasn’t too late. It was strange, because at first he thought his mind had frozen time in the urgency of the events, but the two colors were very much not moving on purpose.

Gendry pulled up short when he ran up to them, ready to snatch the evil girl and slam her into the hard steps, and saw a very sharp, thin blade pointing directly at him, through the chest of the now limp girl. He leapt aside as her lifeless body fell back, still holding the blade hostage. Arya stood over her, pulling weakly as if unsheathing the sword from a scabbard of sticky muck. Worry tickled his stomach, as he reached, helped her hand pull the now recognizable castle-forged weapon from flesh, and braced her as she crumbled to the ground. He sat so her back was against the inside of his leg and her own legs draped limply over his other.

“Arya, we need to find you a healer.” He said shakily, covering the blood drenched cloth that was once blue. There were no tears in the fabric so he hesitantly lifted the coarse material and saw, what once was a wrapping. He was scared to look at her face to see death in her features, but thought the lack of response warranted it.

Gendry never would have thought looking at someone would make him so emotional, but Arya was always able to get a rise out of him. Her eyes were that same tender grey when she saw him in the crowd, but they were wet and dark. He swallowed a lump in his throat as she licked her dry lips.

“Why do you have to be so damn bullheaded?” Her voice was like a ghost’s; faint, sad, familiar.

He smiled at her words, unable to hold back from their casual banter, “Maybe m’lady, shouldn’t be so reckless. I bet you were talking too much again.”

She hiccupped through a small laugh, a couple tears sliding down her pale cheeks. There wasn’t time for catching up on silly conversation. His hand was warm on her dampened belly, blood still seeping through her torn skin. He supposed he could take her back to Bellona and beg for help. Promising to leave as soon as Arya was well would convince her. And he would work harder than he ever has, if she just tries to keep Arya alive. He spoke again, with less humor and more urgency, “Are there more people coming to hurt you? Do you know someone that can heal you? Where can I take you?” He wanted to sound serious but his voice was gruff and he tried to look outward as if someone might appear to help, away from her face.

Through deep breaths cut short by grunts of pain, she whispered, “I’m not going to die, stupid.”

A small dagger of anger sliced at him, “Look at yourself, Arya. You are bleeding and you almost got killed.”

“But I didn’t -,”

“But you could’ve _died,_ Arya! I don’t know what to do, and I can’t lose you. Just tell me where to go.”

Arya stared at him for a few moments and to his heart’s dismay, she began to cry. Soft sobs that broke her face into a canvas of grief.

Her hand clutched the fabric of his sleeve and he shook his head, worried he was the cause, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to -,”

“Winterfell.” Arya whimpered, her eyes pleading. “Please, take me home to Winterfell.” She spoke like it was the last words she would ever say. Like, she had been waiting to say it her whole life. In a way, he was sure that was true.

He cradled her closer with one arm and took her hand, blending the blood from his fingers and hers, as he stroked his thumb across her knuckles. The smell of sweat and lemons burned his nose as he leaned forward, resting his cheek on her hot forehead, and softly replied, “As m’lady commands.”


End file.
